


The One Where Fulcrum Suffers For His Bad Taste

by fascinationex



Series: the flash fic series [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Medical Procedures, Poor Life Choices, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unhygienic, Unsafe Sex, all sexual activity implied and vaguely referenced, look at your life look at your choices fulcrum, yes I AM going to flog the 'unhygenic gremlin misfire' pony until it gets up out of its grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: For the prompt: "Maybe a short thing of Fulcrum thinking about his attraction to Misfire and coming to the conclusion that MAYBE, he has bad taste in men".I'm so sorry, I really took this prompt to a place it absolutely did not deserve to go. Mind the tags.
Relationships: Fulcrum/Misfire (Transformers)
Series: the flash fic series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665544
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	The One Where Fulcrum Suffers For His Bad Taste

**Author's Note:**

> References [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194084), which is unhygienic and NSFW. Mind the tags.

Fulcrum's valve hurt when he woke up.

That wasn't unusual. Misfire was a little bigger than Fulcrum's original frame and its remaining parts, which included his interfacing hardware—and he got pretty enthusiastic, sometimes. 

But it wasn't that kind of hurt. It was... burning.

Worse than that, it also itched. It itched _and_ it hurt.

And that had been when Fulcrum's vague worry got eclipsed by the sudden memory dump of the day previous. He'd let Misfire put energon he'd siphoned from some random dead mech up his valve, for reasons that frankly baffled him the next day.

Fulcrum had washed himself out, obviously, and much to Misfire's amusement. But he'd known that what they'd done was... unsanitary.

Apparently he hadn't done a good enough job. 

Misfire recharged one berth away, vents blowing softly as his fans cycled on their lowest setting. He mumbled in his sleep and chewed his pillow, and his wings twitched as he dreamed. It was about as still as he ever got. 

Misfire, Fulcrum suspected, would suffer no consequences for his own bad choices. He'd spiked Fulcrum straight after. If there was any justice in the world, he'd wake with his spike on fire.

Fulcrum's experiences suggested that a lot of people paid lip service to justice, but in the end, the universe was a justice-free zone.

He rolled onto back and stared at the roof of their shared room on the Weak Anthropic Principle. There were holes. Thick ventilation pipes gleamed through. He could hear the hum of the struggling ship.

His valve throbbed. It was anything but sexy. The contracting rings of his calipers just agitated it. He grunted. _Ow._

He could ignore it. He already ignored a lot of things about his new frame that made him nervous. 

But visions of full-frame infection danced through his processor: a raised core temperature while his frame tried to isolate the problem, blown out fans, hypersensitive protoform, long periods of lethargy, emotional disregulation...

Fulcrum stared fatalistically at the busted roof. He was going to have to see Spinister about his valve. 

He was staring fatalistically at a totally different roof twenty two minutes later, trying to pretend he didn't exist below the helm. 

Spinister had given him a long look with his dull optics.

"Interfacing injury," he'd predicted, with some kind of bizarre, medic-only mysterious foreknowledge, based only on the extremely awkward way Fulcrum had approached. 

Then he'd made him get on the mostly-clean medical berth and unsnap his valve panel. It was... uncomfortable.

He hadn't needed lubricant, because Fulcrum's valve was leaking its own, trying to flush out foreign bodies.

"You shouldn't let Misfire put stuff in your valve," Spinster said, like he was imparting sage advice and not common fragging sense. 

_I didn't know this was going to happen_ , Fulcrum wanted to protest. But he kind of had. 

Spinister rubbed a swab right up against the weeping opening, grunted, said, "Hang on," and then without further comment pushed it inside. 

Fulcrum yowled like a cybercat, and then he tried to kick Spinister in the head in sheer reflex—not successfully, as his leg was batted away one-handed with a loud clank. By the time he finished making that unholy noise and panicking at the sudden horrible feeling, the swab was already out of him. 

Spinister turned away, peering closely at his swab and ignoring that Fulcrum was even there. 

Fulcrum twitched abortively. He snapped his panel shut, swung his legs around, gripped the edge of the medical berth and squirmed, kicking his legs back and forth. His valve hurt worse from the swab than it had before.

A hundred awful possibilities raced through his processor. He watched Spinster do something that didn't look especially medical—something with his swab and an open flame, which then turned a worryingly bright yellow-green. Spinster's rotors clicked as they drifted in a slow circle.

What if he had something that they didn't have the supplies to fix? They didn't have the supplies for a lot of things aboard the WAP. Worse, what if it wasn't even something they could fix _with_ supplies? What if Fulcrum was dying and they had to tell Krok? 

His fuel tank wanted to curl up and collapse.

Spinister made a humming noise. As far as Fulcrum could tell, he would have looked exactly the same whether he'd been dying or not. "Am I ...going to be okay?" 

"Yeah. ...Probably. You've got mites."

The maddening itch abruptly increased, like, tenfold.

"I've got _what_?" 

"Mites. Usually they're a necrophilia thing," Spinister said. He scratched his chin. 

Fulcrum made a noise deep in his engine, largely of abject mortification. "A..." 

That energon _had_ been siphoned from a mech long since deactivated. 

"It's easy to treat... but you'll get over it on your own in a couple weeks. We don't have anything to treat it with anyway."

Spinister turned back to the swab, and then set it alight properly and watched it burn to ash before he started cleaning up the table he'd used. 

"That's it?"

"What?" 

"Is that ...all?"

"Is what all?" The big helicopter was starting to look confused, so Fulcrum had to assume that it was, in fact, all. He knew he should leave before confusing Spinister made him dangerous. 

Fulcrum flinched when his feet hit the floor and the impact was referred all the way up to his throbbing valve. He hobbled gingerly out of the medical bay.

Misfire was awake when he returned. He looked up as the door shrieked shut behind Fulcrum.

"Oh hey," he said, through a mouthful of some sticky snack Fulcrum didn't recognise. "You're back!" 

He paused for all of three seconds while he licked crumbs off one finger. "You wanna frag?" 

His wings wiggled invitingly.

Fulcrum looked at him for a moment. Then he turned around and walked right back out without answering.

"Hey?" Misfire's confused voice drifted after him down the corridor. "Pinhead! Fulcrum!" Another pause. "Crumbcake...?" 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, feel free to let me know in a comment, if that's your thing. 👌


End file.
